For better, for Worse
by PaiPerMeent
Summary: "You need to think about your soon-to-be-born child, my dear Watson." Rated T for suggestive content.
1. The breakoff

**A/N:** Probably not the most Victorian thing you'll ever read. But the idea of John not being a cheating man really stuck with me. Hence! This drabble was born.

**Word Count:** 497

**Disclaimer: **These characters are ALL Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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><p>"I couldn't agree with you more," Holmes' voice sounds cold. I almost start at his intrusion, but it wouldn't be the first time he's broken in upon my thoughts. I won't let him know I want to know how he knew what I was thinking. I'm not new to his methods of deduction, having lived with him for several years before I married. Mary. Oh, God, Mary. He's agreeing to end this, this, <em>buggery. <em>Still, I am relieved that I don't have to be the one to end it. His ability to remark on my thoughts has never been as vital as it is now. We pass a few more moments in silence before he begins again.

"You need to think about your soon-to-be-born child, my dear Watson." This time I do start. How could he possibly know? Besides the ever-present curiosity, I am filled with anger. How long has he known about the unborn child? How could he still go through with this knowing? Still- still!- in the beat through my veins I can tell that, although this will be the last time, the impression upon my mind this instance has left will never go away. No matter how much I want it to. Lost in my train of thought, I hardly recognize my own voice calling out to him, "Honestly, Holmes. It's too-" He puts up a hand to stop me. He won't give me an explanation?

"I won't," explains he, "rationalize my deductions for you." I suppose it's a kindness he's trying to extend to me. Still, his gesture feels heartless, as so many of them tend to. I watch him very closely, his eyes shift to an area of the house neither of us can see at the moment.

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten. I brought toys and the like for the child. That's what it is, isn't it? How you knew?" His smile let me know I was right. I felt lighter for that. But then the reality of the situation hit me hard. I'm married, I'm about to father a child, there will be no time for future deductions or for crime-solving. I clear my throat and remark that I should be getting dressed. I quickly gather my scattered cloth and dress.

I walk over to the side of his bed, "This is good-bye, Holmes." I offer him my hand as a farewell gesture, but after a few moments I let it drop, as it's obvious he isn't going to take it. I look at him and all I can feel is disdain. He's forced me to commit this terrible act, to be traitorous to my future family. If we're caught, we could both go to prison. Then his eyes traveled to his bed-side table. That must be where he's keeping his cocaine. It's too cluttered for me to make out any definite shapes on it though. When it's clear his attention won't drift back to me, I leave. For good.


	2. Mourning

**A/N: **Originally, the other chapter was written from Sherlock's POV. But when I typed it up I just... made it in to John's. I feel this scene is much more appropriate from Holmes' though. Well, with that in mind, review and enjoy!

**Word Count:** 710

**Disclaimer:** Second verse, same as the first!

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><p>Three months have come and gone, and I haven't heard a word from my dear Watson. Our rooms, -my rooms!- are lonely without his constant companionship. I know our physical relationship is at an end, but does he truly hate me enough to never allow me to see him again? The look he gave me before he left tells me as much. I'll be lucky if he lets me know when the child is born. A tiny Watson, and I won't be able to see it! Still, even if John won't share the news, I'm sure Mrs. Watson will. She owes me more than she could know for their marriage. It was his decision to marry the woman he loved, naturally. I would like to believe he needed my blessing, but he married the woman even when I failed to bestow it. Facts are facts.<p>

I am sitting at my desk, trying to focus on the monograph I set out to write. Somehow, with Watson's absence, I can't find the words. I take a look at the writing, and it seems so unfamiliar. So messy. I read what I've written so far, but it isn't very promising.

_"To feign sickeness is a vary useful abillity. Certan commonplace items can give a satisfactry appearance of different sorts of ailments. To produce a look of fever, dabbing honey on one's cheeks..."_

I can't help but to feel ashamed of the beginnings of it. Honey on one's cheeks? Certan? There are far too many errors, so I rip up what is there and allow it to soak in a glass of water. I will have to pick up the subject later, when my thoughts are more composed. Hah, just the other day Lestrade asked me for some advice, and I nearly sent him on the wrong scent! Can you imagine? I was ready to send him to arrest the victim. Then he commented on Watson's absence, and it gave me a second to rethink and produce the correct deduction. Watson, my conductor of light, is working hard for me even when he doesn't know it! I run my fingers through my scalp, allowing the palms of my hand to rest on my forehead. How could it have gotten this bad?

Next I know there's a knock at the front door. I snap my eyes open. Who is it? When had I fallen asleep? I look to the papers on my desk for some sort of clue, but find their blank faces won't help me a lick. There's another knock just as my clock rings one. One in the morning. Who could be here this late? A client, surely. I grab my dressing robe and dash to the front door, knowing poor Mrs. Hudson is asleep. What I see shocks me.

It's my dear, dear Watson! But wait- Oh, no. Both Mary and the child have passed. Sickness. The look on John's face is so earth-shattering I almost feel bad that he's here, but I recover and usher him in and out of the cold. Before anything can happen, I lead him up to our rooms, supporting his weight with an arm around his waist, and position his arm across my shoulders. The second the door closes, he wraps me in his arms and sobs. His hands feel like they're about to shatter my shoulders, and his tears are soaking my robe. I cross my arms across his back and stroke it reassuringly. I don't tell him that everything will be alright.

When his breathing has returned to normal and his tears have dried, I pull away and look him in the eyes. He looks back and the look of pure-hate from our last meeting has vanished. This is the Watson I know.

I wake Watson at four in the morning. He needs to go to sleep in his old room. I escort him there, but only linger for a moment. I give him a once-over to make sure he can stand the three year mourning time I know he will complete. I'll be sure to have some black gloves and cravats ready for him when he wakes once more.


End file.
